


the water's dried, you'll still find stone

by lillibattenberg



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff, King Alistair and Queen Cousland, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Reunions, guess who comes back guys?, no beta we die like darkspawn, rating for swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28513248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lillibattenberg/pseuds/lillibattenberg
Summary: In the middle of a long, boring day of ruling, King Alistair is startled by a messenger heralding the arrival of a mysterious visitor - one who knows about the Calling, yet doesn't set off Alistair's Grey Warden spidey-sense.Huh. How odd. It's almost like he still has a chance at a happy ending.But that would be ludicrous, right?
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 19





	the water's dried, you'll still find stone

"Your Majesty," gasps the messenger, doubling over in exhaustion as much as a proper bow. Gabriel goes to snap at him and Alistair has to hold up a chiding finger, internally (always internally; he's gotten quite good at hiding his feelings if he does say so himself) asking himself why he keeps that man around. His advisor might be a damn good politician, a master of Orlais' obnoxious Game, but Alistair didn't get this popular by kissing every noble hand and arse that came his way, let alone to the detriment of his people. Why should he treat his people - worse, his _employees_ \- like shit?

Instead, Alistair smiles indulgently at the boy. "Take your time," he says, sending a pointed look Gabriel's way. "Unless we're being invaded? If we are, I'm afraid you didn't give me half enough notice. I'm not exactly in the right outfit."

"We're not being invaded, per se." A smile breaks over the runner's face like sunshine through a cloud. "But there _is_ a heavily-armoured woman insisting she sees you."

Alistair blinks. "What, _now_?"

"Immediately, ser. She was very clear on that. I believe her exact words were: 'get Al's perfect arse off that throne and down these stairs before the Calling comes for him'?"

_A fellow Warden, then,_ Alistair thinks, joining the dots. Ha. Joining. _But in that case, I should have been able to sense them a league off. So... knows about the Calling, but isn't a Warden? Could be the Inquisitor, of course. Doesn't she have a place in Ferelden these days? Or Hawke - she knew that Stroud fellow, didn't she?_ "Describe her."

Alistair was expecting build, banner, colouring, maybe hair. Instead, his messenger winks - actually _winks_ \- and tells him that "she has a very pretty button nose you were insistent that painter get right."

" _No_..."

"Yes."

Alistair's face falls almost imperceptibly. Of _course_ it's not real. "How much did you have riding on my reaction?" he says in the most even tone he can manage, getting slowly up from the throne and taking time to roll out all the kinks. "Please tell me I'm at least valuable."

"Immeasurably, ser. Beyond what money can buy or words can say. And she wants to be with you as long as possible." The runner's eyes go soft and misty. "Go be with your wife."

Well, shit. Or maybe not shit. Alistair's heart jumps into his throat. He doesn't want to let himself hope, only to crumble like a stale biscuit when his queen comes home in an elegant, decorative, fucking macabre little urn. Because she _can't_ be back. Not alive. They have a connection - none of that soulmate crap, but the taint in their blood. If she was truly back, he would be tingling like he fell asleep on his arm.

Unless...

"Maker's mercy," Alistair breathes. "She did it." His hands shake like he's in the throes of lyrium withdrawal, and he pulls at the soft, silvery fur on his jacket in a desperate attempt to steady himself. "She actually did it."

He walks interminably slowly towards the door. He wants it to be real - _Maker_ , he so wants it to be real - but this isn't a children's tale. They don't all live happily ever after. This is Tethras all over: the guardsman is a traitor and Andraste burns and her Herald loses an arm and the Chantry blows up and he's persuaded to fuck a woman he doesn't love to save the woman he does only to lose her anyway ten years later.

The great doors of the palace open as if on their own, and Alistair walks out of them like a man condemned. It's not real, she's not real, it's all -

It's real.

She's there, slightly more scarred than when she left (and he feels _awful_ thinking that the scarring is an improvement but _Maker's breath_ it shows off her jawline _perfectly_ ), but otherwise she's the same woman who left him for the Anderfels four years ago. Alistair gulps down a sob. "L-loreley?"

"Hello, dear," Loreley says with a soft smile, like she just got back from a day of Warden-Commanding and not four years of desperate searching. "How goes ruling?"

"Not so great without my favourite ball and chain to ground me," Alistair admits, unsure whether to smile or sob.

"Bastard."

_That_ gets him smiling. "And you bring up my dubious parentage because...?"

Loreley giggles. "I've been gone four years, and you call me _that_?"

"How could I not?"

Loreley can't quite bring herself to look threatening. "Only my husband gets to call me that," she says, and finally the tears fall. "My _husband_... thank the Maker, I'm _home_."

"You are." Alistair runs - actually _runs_ \- down the stairs, feeling once again like a boy of barely twenty at his own royal wedding. "Oh, Maker, you _are_. I can't believe you're finally here."

Loreley stands frozen, watching the dignified, respected ruler who treats even the lowliest person in his kingdom as an equal disappear. Through misty eyes, she sees Alistair grow younger, looking more his actual age by the minute. He takes great, leaping strides towards her, unburdened by the tiresome politics of court, and suddenly Loreley lets out a little scream as two strong, golden arms lift her off the ground in her husband's warm embrace.

He laughs, and she laughs, and they hold onto each other as he spins her around like a fairground ride. Gabriel winces at this sign of weakness and vulnerability (and how very Orlesian, his colleagues think, to be afraid of showing anyone you're mortal), but his employers don't notice. They're too busy with their shining smiles and tiny, tender tears and warm, soft embraces.

Loreley alights back on Thedas and smiles at her husband. "I will warn you: it's icky. The cure, I mean."

"Can't be any worse than the Joining," Alistair retorts, one eyebrow raised as he flashes her a cheeky smile.

"Ehhh... it's _almost_ as bad."

" _Maker_ ," Alistair swears, and flinches a little, but that's not really what's running through his head.

He was wrong, he decides. This is Tethras all over.

The other guardsman gets to retire on a high note.

Andraste lives on as the Maker's Bride.

The Herald doesn't have to save the world anymore, and can retire to a quiet corner of Ferelden with her husband and his dog.

The Champion saves us all. Again.

And he gets his wife back - for a lot longer than the next twenty years.


End file.
